How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie by Gina Henning Read Free Book Online Page A

to a tall guy.
    This guy seems all business—his attire and his attention. He’s tapping away at his phone. Even though I’m taking my time, taking him in, he is completely oblivious to my full body inspection. Business button-down smoothly pressed shirt with dark pants, snug where it matters. Even with my strappy heels, he towers over me. He must be at least six feet tall.
    “Let me check,” the broom guy says. He’s probably happy to have an excuse to get away from me.
    I nod at the broom guy and clear my throat to Mr. Business. “Ahem.”
    He’s unobservant of my throat clearing and apparently me. I bend at the knees in my most ladylike way as I pick up my pecans. As I am standing back up, my heel slides on the floor, and I grab at the only thing in arm’s reach to stabilize—Mr. Business’s legs. I cling to them with my life as I try to prevent myself from falling. Mr. Business, finally aware of my presence, grabs a hold of my wrists and slowly pulls me to my feet. His strong embrace loosens as his hands make their way to mine. Our eyes meet and I let out a small laugh. His irises are blue with flecks of green.
    “Are you all right?” Mr. Business asks.
    “Uh…yes.”
Way to be eloquent, Lauren
.
    He lets go and stares at me, waiting for me to speak. The broom guy walks over, interrupting our moment of silence and penetrating stares. Stares that push through the irises and beyond the tendons to the core of where feelings form—the brain. I can
feel
him trying to get there. But the broom guy is here, standing right next to us. I break first and give my attention to the intruder of our shared, silent stares.
    “I’m sorry, miss. We’re all out,” he says with his eyebrows raised. The expression of “is there anything else I can help you with” is written across his face, but his lack of words gives the impression of “please leave me alone.”
    My vocal cords are constricted. I manage to push out a “Thank you.”
    What else can I say? The line has dissipated to three people: a woman, Mr. Business, and me. Mr. Business has his back to me. His basket is full of pecans. There’s no way he needs all of those pecans.
    I tap my heels for a second. Mr. Business turns around and sighs at my shoe. My foot tapping is bothering him? His gaze moves from my sandal to my leg and finally to my face. I smile and he turns back around, pulling out his phone from his pocket.
Humph.
That’s odd.
    I run my fingers through my hair. Scratch that. I
try
to run my fingers through my hair. Yikes, it’s ridiculously tangled. Patting my hair down as smoothly as it will go, I reach up to tap on his shoulder. A little electric current zaps my finger as it makes contact with his crisp, pressed shirt.
    “Wow. Can you believe they’re completely out of pecans?” I say to Mr. Business as he faces me.
    His right eyebrow is raised. His face is clean-shaven with strong bone structure. Maybe his family tree hasn’t been in America for too long, or he has some strong definition-in-the-face genes. What type of definition would he have in some blue jeans, classic Levis or maybe Diesel, with or without a few tears from hard work?
Ah, Lauren, pay attention. The guy is speaking to you!
    “Yes, well, they’re the
best
in Texas,” he says with a bit of annoyed inflection on the operative word.
    He turns back around and taps on his phone while holding the basket in the crook of his elbow. I guess he’s not excited to be here or to purchase the pecans. Clearly, he doesn’t want to small talk with me. I need another bag of pecans, so I’m not going to let it go.
    “You must have grabbed the last one.” I peek into his basket with pecan envy. I want to grab one of his bags, throw some cash on the register, and run out the door.
    “I think you took the last bag,” he says without even a glance in my direction. He swipes his finger across the face of his phone and turns his attention to the register.
    The woman in front of him is